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Lake scowls, holds him away. “You were licking up your own vomit not that long ago, dude,” he says. “I don’t want kisses.”
Steve squirms as he tries to get closer.
Likely because he’s now identified Lake as another potential source of food.
Hazel eyes come back to mine, a dark brow lifts. “Yeah,” I say, “he did his business.”
A nod. “Good. Come on.”
He turns, starts walking back across the room, Steve still in his arms. I watch him go for a moment—because, holy hell, the back view is as good as the front—but then I realize he’s walking away from me again with Steve in his arms.
For all that the man calls my dog a demon, he certainly walks off with him a lot.
“Wait,” I say, hurrying after them. “Where are you—”
But Lake’s already at the far end of the hall, walking through the wide door of his bedroom by the time I start making my way to the mouth of the opening.
“I—” I whisper before breaking off with a shake of my head, hurrying after them, walking into the bedroom, and stopping.
Not because Steve is making trouble.
He hasn’t stolen a pair of underwear, hasn’t crawled under the bed.
He’s currently turning circles at the foot of the bed, getting comfortable in that quintessential dog way—spinning around and around, digging in the blankets, spinning some more, and then finally collapsing with a huff.
Lake shakes his head then disappears behind a door while I stand there, flat-footed and on edge, wondering what’s come over him. The last thing I expected is for him to offer me up his bed—and certainly not without a lick of a complaint.
Perhaps Steve is growing on him.
Or, more likely, he feels sorry for me.
I pause, toes digging into the soles of my shoes, not liking that thought at all, hating how it makes me feel, but I don’t have much time to sit in that shame because then Lake is out from behind that door, walking across the room, his arms full of blankets.
“I can’t let you give me your bed,” I say softly.
He stops, frowns. “Who says I’m giving you my bed?”
NowIfrown. He’s got blankets in his arms and my dog is settled in his bed and he told me to follow him down the hall.
If I’m not sleeping in his bed then what the hell am I doing standing here?
“I—” My gaze goes from Steve, already snoring, to him, his arms full of blankets, and back to the bed. “No one, I guess,” I whisper.
He tilts his head to the side then shakes it as though I’m the most confounding creature on the planet—and I suppose to him, I am. He drops the armful of blankets and sheets onto the bed and turns to fully face me, frown deepening, hazel eyes sparking.
“You think you’re going to sleep in my bed.”
“I—” I shake my head again. “Never mind. I’ll just grab Steve and—”
“You’renot sleeping in it,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Reading that loud and clear—”
It’ll be me and my clothes and towels and maybe Steve if I can coax him from the bottom of the bed.
Fine.
Whatever.
